


If By Chance

by acertainheight



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/F, and trevelyan fell hopelessly in love with her from the very first glimpse, in which josephine used to attend the summer balls in the free marches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-24
Updated: 2015-01-24
Packaged: 2018-03-08 11:31:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3207620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acertainheight/pseuds/acertainheight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>But this time it wasn't Evelyn's fault that she wasn't listening. For once, she really couldn't help it. Because all of a sudden, in one brief instant, the crowd had parted and something—some<i>one</i>—had caught her eye from across the room. It happened in a flash, like something out of a story—a sudden burst of sparks and stars, an explosion pounding against her skull, lightning down her spine. (Or: Three times Evelyn walks away, and one time she doesn't.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	If By Chance

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: "In a convo with Josephine she can mention that she used to go to your aunt's summer balls and wonder why she didn't see much of you there. F!Trevelyan has had a massive crush on Josie since she was a teenager, but was too awkward/shy to pursue it then." A lot of crushing ensues. (Same Inquisitor/timeline as [WMM](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2736434/chapters/6132455) \- that takes place somewhere between III and IV here, sort of. Pretend it works.) (This should have been finished much sooner. I've spent the last two weeks playing precisely 102 hours of Inquisition. Oops.)
> 
> It's fate, or love, or maybe a little bit of both.

I.

“Evelyn, darling, straighten up. Chin high, big smile—do try and look like you want to be here.”

Evelyn bit her tongue and tried her very, very hardest not to remind her great-aunt that, as a matter of fact, she absolutely did _not_ want to be there. She would have rather been anywhere else (once she'd told her aunt that she would rather spend the evening under an ogre's armpit and she'd been banned from leaving her room for a whole week). These balls were an ordeal—hours of Great-Aunt Lucille jabbing a bony finger into her back and hoarsely whispering that So-and-so's son was here, and he was rather nice and _perfectly_ eligible, and _oh,_ doesn't he look handsome in that lovely shade of blue? And her mother was hardly any better: In true family tradition, most nights Lady Trevelyan was pink-cheeked and slurring her words before the sun had set. Meanwhile, her father usually came up with an ironclad excuse to be somewhere else, and her brothers—well, _they_ always disappeared after the first dance, giggling girls in tow. But Evelyn had learned her lesson the hard way over the past few years. The more she complained, the more her aunt insisted that her presence was utterly necessary.

The balls had their charm, of course—even Evelyn, stubborn as she was, had to admit that. Her aunt was a consummate party-planner, and in the long summer months, her court became the most popular place in all the Free Marches. Visitors arrived from all throughout Thedas: Orlesian aristocrats, high-collared and aloof; Fereldan lords and ladies, always the loudest and the drunkest by the end of the night; Antivan nobles, bearing gifts of wine that her aunt immediately whisked away; and even the rare, inscrutable Tevinter magister. Sometimes, once the ballroom filled with people from every corner of the land and transformed into a wild, beautiful blur of silk and laughter, Evelyn even managed a reluctant smile.

Oh, and the ballroom itself—Maker, there was nowhere lovelier in all the Free Marches come summertime. Great-Aunt Lucille spent all year waiting for the summer, and her hard work was evident in every detail. The band was the very best, the chefs were the very finest, the wine cellars were stocked to the brim, and of course, every conceivable surface was draped in chiffon and dusted with gold. It was ostentatious, almost absurd, only an inch away from gaudy—Evelyn had always been particularly struck by the rose petals dipped in gold and scattered across the floor, existing only to be kicked aside. Occasionally, in a fit of teenage angst, she would determine that they were a metaphor for something dramatic (even though she wasn't sure _what_ , exactly), but mostly everything was beautiful. The summer balls were wild, extravagant, joyous—

And Evelyn still hated every moment of them. She was months away from sixteen (“old enough to bed and old enough to wed,” as her aunt cheerfully reminded her more than once), and all too often, these balls devolved into a display of potential suitors. She was as shy and awkward as any young girl had ever been—gangly, resentful, prone to the occasional fit of existential misery—and she was agonizingly aware of every single one of her flaws. She kept a running list in her head: Those freckles wouldn't go away no matter how often she prayed, she didn't know how to dance, her cheeks went all splotchy and red any time someone asked her a question, and she was still waiting to grow into her nose.

Even worse than the embarrassment, however, was the simple fact that the balls were _boring._ Hours upon hours upon hours of absolutely nothing interesting. One year, she'd been lucky: A visiting relative from Ferelden had gotten absolutely sloshed and proceeded to give a two hour speech on an imagined apocalypse (demons, mass societal collapse, a vengeful god—the usual). At least that had been somewhat amusing, especially the part where he stripped down to his pantaloons and began to sing. Evelyn had hummed along while her aunt had a conniption in the corner. Most years were nowhere near that entertaining. So far, this year was shaping up to be particularly unbearable.

“Evelyn! Evelyn, darling, do try to listen!”

The half-cheery, half-perturbed cry jerked Evelyn away from her thoughts. With immense effort, she forced herself to focus on whatever it was that her great-aunt was babbling on about. “Sorry, what was that?”

“You really do need to listen more closely, darling,” her aunt chirped. “No one will want to talk to you if you wander around with that pretty little head in the clouds. Now, as I was saying, the very handsome Duke of— _Evelyn_! You're ignoring me again! Ooh, I shall have to have _words_ with your mother over this!”

But this time it wasn't Evelyn's fault that she wasn't listening. For once, she really couldn't help it. Because all of a sudden, in one brief instant, the crowd had parted and something—some _one_ —had caught her eye from across the room. It happened in a flash, like something out of a story—a sudden burst of sparks and stars, an explosion pounding against her skull, lightning down her spine. With one glance, her head had gone foggy and her heart had lodged itself firmly in her throat. She licked her dry lips and tried to focus on her great-aunt, who had continued to prattle on undaunted, but she couldn't hear anything over the dizzy roar in her ears and the pounding of her own heart.

“Erm,” she began, and then she coughed and cleared her throat. Her tongue felt heavy and her head was still spinning. “Um, there are, uh, some new faces here this year.”

“What?” Her great-aunt paused, cut off in the middle of a long, affectionate description of the Duke-of-Something's mustache. “Oh, yes, there certainly are! You know, we continue to expand every year. Why, I sent threescore invitations more this year than the year before, and the year before _that—_ ”

Evelyn coughed to interrupt her again—urgent and desperate this time, as if her life depended on the answer. “Who's that?”

“Who's who, darling? And don't point. Pointing is dreadfully _common_."

Evelyn didn't need to point; the target of her attention was obvious, and not merely because her stare was anything but subtle. Across the room, at the center of a group of silent admirers, was the most stunning woman she had ever seen. There was a striking magnetism to her even from across the ballroom, an allure proven by the small group clustered around her. Men and women alike were breathlessly hanging on to her every word and lighting up when she rewarded them with even the slightest hint of attention. When she laughed, she threw her head back, wild and free; Evelyn swallowed hard, unable to tear her eyes away from the delicate curve of her neck.

“Her? Why, Lady Josephine Montilyet, of course. A fine family, the Montilyets, and she's the eldest child—young, but supposedly very sharp. She's making a name for herself in Antiva and I absolutely _had_ to see her for myself, so I sent her an invitation instead of frumpy old Lady Boggins.”

“Oh.” The single syllable was the most Evelyn can manage. She was too busy trying to soak in every detail of the woman caught in her gaze. Lady Montilyet was the loveliest sight she had ever seen, as fine and precise as a statue, composed all of angles and sharp lines—high cheekbones and a razor jaw and the calculated tilt of her smile. There was an edge to her, carefully masked in daring gold silk but still glinting underneath. It was enough to make Evelyn's heart skip and stutter. She had never before felt infatuation crash into her like this, like a wave against a crumbling shore; she had never before seen anyone so achingly, painfully beautiful.

Lady Montilyet turned around, and for a single second, she met Evelyn's stare.

And then the crowd closed back around her and she vanished.

 

II.

Evelyn was nineteen the second time she saw her.

There had been three summers in between—three summers that she had spent away from home (and far away from Great-Aunt Lucille's summer balls) after her parents sent her to live with an distant relative. There had been an _incident,_ as her mother called it. Young ladies weren't supposed to be caught kissing serving girls, and they _especially_ weren't supposed to be caught by nice young men who had come to court them. And so her mother had moaned that she couldn't bear to so much as look at Evelyn, her father had given in without much of a fight, and off she had gone, headed north to Uncle Welcombe in Markham. It wasn't that Evelyn minded, not really—it stung, of course, but she was used to her mother's words stinging—but she was relieved nevertheless when the fourth summer began and she received the letter inviting her back home. Her memories of home were faint and fond, the edges soft with time.

The years had been good for her, though perhaps not in the ways her mother had hoped. She still couldn't dance to save her life, but she'd finally grown into that nose, and a self-assured grin had replaced that old embarrassing blush. Uncle Welcombe had proven to be far from the daft old coot that he initially appeared. After two weeks, he had knocked on her locked door and asked if she was tired of sulking yet; when she reluctantly admitted that she was, he had started to give her regular lessons in everything from Wicked Grace to self-defense. By the time she finally returned home, she had filled out her gangly frame, learned how to disarm a man with a flick of her wrist, and left her insecurities behind her. (She could only assume that her parents had confused Uncle Welcombe for Aunt Wycombe, who was eighty years old, deeply religious, and regularly dressed up her cats for afternoon tea.)

Her parents had welcomed her home with hugs and whispers that everything would be better now that all of this was behind them. But things weren't better—only different. Her brothers were gone (two married, one a templar, all gone without so much as a note bidding her farewell), the cousins she had loved as sisters had left for the Chantry, and her parents had no time to spare for their youngest child. Everything had changed; only the summer ball remained a constant, and for the first time in her life, Evelyn found herself looking forward to seeing her aunt.

Great-Aunt Lucille was, unsurprisingly, delighted to see her. The night of the ball, she spotted Evelyn from a distance and came scuttling over to greet her. She sized her up, clutched at her pearls with one bejeweled hand, and let out a gasp so forceful that she nearly collapsed. “Evelyn, darling! My oh my, it has been _so_ very long! You look splendid! Oh, I'd always hoped you would turn out to be a late bloomer—”

“Yes, it has been a while, hasn't it? You look very lovely, Aunt Lucille.” Evelyn spoke through gritted teeth, a polite smile plastered across her face.

“And I'm so glad that _incident_ was taken care of.”

Well, at least some things never changed. “You know, they have girls in Markham too, Auntie. If you'll excuse me...”

Evelyn neatly sidestepped her dumbstruck aunt and headed towards the nearest tray of drinks. The night was still young, but thirty seconds with her aunt had been enough to give her a pounding headache—just like old times. She downed a flute of champagne far too quickly and stepped back into the whirling crowd.

That was when she saw her.

Evelyn took a hasty step backwards and grabbed another drink with trembling fingers. The glass shook in her white-knuckled grip; she pressed against a marble column, desperate for anything that might steady her, but not even the cold marble against her back was enough to clear her head. She had forgotten this—the thundering timpani kick of her heart, the way her breath hitched so sharply that she feared the whole room might hear it, the burn of her cheeks. Four years. Four years and one glimpse was all it took to knock the breath from her lungs and leave her feeling fifteen again.

Perhaps it was only her imagination, a passing fancy. Maybe she hadn't seen correctly, maybe it was someone else—

But no. There she was, bright smile and blue silk glinting through a gap in the crowd, impossible to miss: Lady Josephine Montilyet, just as striking as she had been three years ago. Evelyn felt queasy. She reached for another drink and tried to still her racing mind.

Lady Montilyet looked different—older, more carefully composed, with a subtle grace replacing the wild exuberance that Evelyn remembered so clearly. Her face was a touch harder, her smile was more reserved, but she was still the same: Unbearably, incomprehensibly lovely. This time, she lingered at the edge of a group, listening and controlling the conversation without commanding it. Every crook of her lips and every tilt of her head was endlessly fascinating. Evelyn couldn't look away.

From across the room came the first notes of a rousing waltz, and the crowd began to divide into pairs. This was it. This was her chance. Evelyn set down her empty glass and took a deep, steadying breath, a desperate attempt to block out the words echoing in her head: _Now or never, now or never._ She pushed her way through the crowd, murmuring soft apologies and pleasantries, her gaze still focused on Lady Montilyet. The bubbles had gone to her head; she felt dizzier with every step.

And then Lady Montilyet turned around, long enough to meet Evelyn's stare for one precious, infinite second. She smiled, inclined her head, and raised a hand in silent acknowledgement. 

Evelyn stared, breathless—and turned away, letting the crowd swallow her back up.

 

III.

After everything—the giant gaping hole in the sky, the matching green scar on her palm, the rampaging hordes of demons—Evelyn was starting to think that nothing at all could surprise her. None of this was supposed to happen. Her family had sent her off to the Chantry conclave simply because they couldn't find anything better to do with their youngest child; she was supposed to remain quiet and out of the way, far away from the real negotiations. But of course, despite her best efforts to follow instructions, that empty back passageway hadn't been quite as empty as she thought—and now here she was, a murderer or a prophet depending on who you asked. Either way, it wasn't what she had expected.

Nothing in the world seemed to make sense any more, but there was still one thing that Evelyn could be sure of: There was absolutely, positively no way that this situation could get stranger. She held onto that certainty, clung to it desperately, as if it were the only thing keeping her sane. In the middle of the chaos, that became her only anchor: _Well, at least it's all uphill from here._

And then she followed Cassandra into Haven's chantry and everything fell apart all over again.

Later, she wouldn't be able to recall her conversation with Cassandra. Surely it had been about something essential, something worth remembering, but...well, there were extenuating circumstances. All she would remember were Cassandra's final words:

“Hold on to that sense of humor,” Cassandra declared, sounding grim and entirely unamused, and then she swung open the door.

On cue, Evelyn let out a strangled gasp as the last remnants of her sense of humor went flying out the window. No. Absolutely not. This had to be a dream, or maybe some kind of all-too-ironic nightmare—this couldn't possibly be real—

“I believe introductions are in order,” Cassandra remarked, oblivious to the sudden deafening drumbeat of Evelyn's heart. “You've met Commander Cullen, leader of the Inquisition’s forces, and of course you already know Sister Leliana, our spymaster.” With a wave of her hand, she barreled on, ignoring Leliana's indignant huff and Cullen's attempt to speak: “And this is Lady Josephine Montilyet, our ambassador and chief diplomat.”

Josephine inclined her head, her lips curving in a subtle, polite smile—more tactful than sincere, carefully constructed and gut-wrenchingly lovely. “I've heard much. It's a pleasure to meet you at last.”

It took Evelyn a long moment to remember how to speak, but finally she managed to force the words past her heavy tongue and her dry lips. “The—the pleasure is all mine, Lady Montilyet.”

Cassandra continued with barely a moment's pause, moving on to something that was undoubtedly important, but Evelyn wasn't listening. Not for the first time in her life, she was too busy trying to sneak covert glances at Josephine from across the room. Her initial shock had faded, replaced with a dazed sort of awe. Maybe this was fate—or something like it. All those silent _almosts_ , those _might-have-beens,_ and now here they were, drawn together one last time as the world collapsed around them. The second chance she needed, like some sort of divine poetry.

Or maybe she had just been reading too many novels lately.

The ambassador was even more stunning than Evelyn had remembered, still beautiful enough to knock her breath away with a single glimpse; at last, Evelyn was close enough to see all the details that distance had denied her: The stray curl that tumbled past the gentle slope of her jaw, the faintest smattering of freckles across the hook of her nose, the self-assured certainty that danced in her dark eyes—

Their eyes met over the table. Before Evelyn had a chance to jerk her gaze away, a blush already coloring her cheeks, Josephine smiled—uncertain, almost shy, the hint of a question on her lips. And then, looking suddenly embarrassed, Josephine was the first to avert her eyes.

For one endless moment, Evelyn felt her heart come to a grinding stop. Maybe, just maybe, there was more here than her own wild imagination.

But of course, nothing was ever as easy as it seemed, and this had never once seemed easy. The next day, Evelyn found herself standing outside of Josephine's office, slowly trying to build up the courage to knock as the minutes ticked by. How hard could it be? What could be more simple than a mere knock? Knuckles on wood, once, twice—

The door swung open.

“Oh,” Josephine gasped, suddenly face-to-face with Evelyn's swinging jaw and her raised fist. She pressed one hand to her chest and let out a flustered, wide-eyed laugh. “You startled me. Have you been waiting long?”

“I was just—I was just about to knock,” Evelyn stammered, well-aware of how utterly pathetic the line sounded. “I thought I would say hello. Were you going somewhere important?”

Once again, Josephine's expression bordered on demure. “No, not at all. Please do come in.”

Evelyn shut the door behind her as she stepped inside. She glanced around, taking in the small chamber with a raised brow. It wasn't quite what she had imagined for the center of their diplomatic efforts. Small, musty, crowded—altogether, it was thoroughly unimpressive. When she turned back around, Josephine was watching her with a rueful smile on her lips.

“Examining my office, I see.”

“It's nice,” Evelyn lied. “It's just a bit, erm...”

“—dark. Yes, I know.” Josephine sighed and shook her head, easing back into the chair at her desk. A single candle served to illuminate the precarious stacks of papers in front of her. “Ah, what I would do for a window!”

“And think of the view,” Evelyn teased. “A bunch of dirt, maybe a rock or two if you're lucky, some well-trampled snow. What could be better?”

When Josephine laughed, melodic and bright and endlessly lovely, Evelyn thought her heart just might burst out of her chest. The sensation was becoming all-too familiar.

Evelyn tried her hardest to remain distant—polite, professional, not at all like the sort of woman who sees someone twice and falls half-in-love with them—and for a while, she managed. Their conversation carried on until Josephine's candle had shrunk to almost nothing; Josephine laughed and all of Evelyn's terrible jokes and Evelyn pretended to understand every bit of political nuance that Josephine tried to explain. But at last, as hopelessly rash as ever, Evelyn gave in to the nagging voice in the back of her mind: 

“So, Lady Montilyet, I'd swear that our families have met somewhere before,” she began, her words a careful prompt. She ran one finger along the edge of the desk, not quite breathing, and watched Josephine's face for any glimmer of recognition.

Josephine tilted her head, brow furrowed in thought. “Perhaps,” she allowed, and then she smiled. “After all, everyone of distinction in the Free Marches attended Lady Trevelyan's summer balls. My, they were...exciting, were they not?”

Evelyn grinned. “They were. Great-Aunt Lucille always did love a party. I never could decide what was worse: That ridiculous menu, her outfits—”

“—or those horrid rose petals,” Josephine interrupted, eyes shining with amusement, and they both burst into sudden, surprised laughter at the shared memory.

“Maker, those were the _worst_! You know, she always did all the decorating herself. Every last ribbon.”

Josephine covered her mouth to mask a giggle. “Somehow I am not surprised. Yet...I don't recall ever seeing you there.”

Ah. And there it was, swift and sharp—the admission she had been waiting for, the realization that her crush had been nothing more than foolish infatuation—no greater significance, no guiding hand, only a youthful imagination running wild. The words were no surprise, yet they stung more than Evelyn had expected. Once again, she felt painfully, irredeemably childish. She shrugged. “Seen one and you've seen them all, right? Anyway, I was never much one for dancing.”

“That reminds me,” Josephine began, shuffling papers around on her desk and reaching for an intricately decorated scroll. “I received a message from—”

But everything had faded into a dull roar, nothing but white noise and a sudden throbbing headache. “Listen, I'm sorry, I just remembered that I have a meeting planned with Cassandra. I'll, uh—I'll get back to you on that. Sorry. So sorry.”

She made it halfway down the hall before she slumped against the cold, hard stone, letting out a shaky breath. When she closed her eyes, all she could see was Josephine's smile—the slow shift from reserved to genuine, the crinkle of her eyes, the surprised arch of her brows—and all she could hear was Josephine's laugh, echoing in her head again and again. She had been so _stupid,_ so utterly idiotic to think that there was anything more to their converging paths than mere chance. So stupid to think that one small wave had been anything more than that.

Evelyn buried her head in her hands and bit back a groan. This was unacceptable. Josephine was her ambassador, her colleague. There could never be anything between them—not now, not ever. Somehow, she would have to learn how to be professional. No staring, no blushing, no running out of rooms. She was going to have to get over this silly little crush sooner rather than later.

But Maker, she was _so_ far gone already.

 

IV.

This had been, without a doubt, the most exhausting night of Evelyn's entire life. Her head was still pounding from the endless court chatter, the crimson of her uniform was dull with drying blood, and somehow more things had managed to go wrong than she could possibly begin to list. By the end of the night, everything had devolved into utter chaos—and, as always, she had been right at the heart of the disaster, caught up in the constant balancing act that her role demanded. Everyone wanted something from her. They always did. And in the end, as the orchestra’s final notes faded away into nothing, the responsibility for the fate of a nation had rested entirely on her weary shoulders. Not the easiest burden to bear.

But despite the odds, despite every obstacle and every absurdly-elaborate murder plot, the Inquisition at last stood triumphant. For once, there would be peace—at least for the rest of the night. Inside the palace, the gathered crowds rejoiced, suddenly devoted to the empress who so many of them had scorned behind closed doors mere hours before. The band struck up once more, the drinks flowed freely, and the celebration carried on. It was all too much. Outside, on the most secluded balcony she could find, Evelyn stood alone in the eye of the storm.

It might have been a beautiful night, had less blood been spilled. The moon was high and full, exquisitely lovely; the stars shone bright in the cloudless sky; and from the balcony, the signs of struggle in the garden below were all but invisible. Evelyn ran her fingers over the marble rail, the stone achingly cold to the touch, and shivered. A bitter wind tugged at her, tossed her hair about and pricked at her cheeks, hinting at colder days soon to come. The nights ahead would be long and dark, and there would be no more peace until their final battle had been won.

(She could practically hear her mother's voice in her head:  _Evelyn, love, don't be so dramatic._ )

The soft click of familiar footsteps interrupted her drifting thoughts, and Evelyn turned to see a welcome sight. “Josephine,” she breathed, the name as reverent as ever on her lips. “What are you doing out here?”

Josephine carefully shut the door behind her, checking twice to be certain that the latch had clicked. She wrapped her arms tight around herself and shivered as the wind picked up. “I was looking for you. I thought you might be hiding somewhere. And so you were.”

Evelyn smiled, wide and genuine for the first time in hours. "So I was. I'm glad you found me."

Josephine joined her at the balcony and settled one steadying hand on the small of her back. “Is everything alright? You look...troubled.”

"I'm just—" Evelyn hesitated, not quite sure where to begin; Josephine let out a soft sigh of understanding and pressed closer to her. A long moment passed before Evelyn spoke again: “I'm just worn out, I suppose.”

“A tumultuous night, but it was worth the struggle. Orlais is safe now.” Josephine rubbed slow circles against her back, her touch tender and familiar. “Is there anything I can do? Get you something? A drink, perhaps?”

A drink didn't sound like a terrible idea, but Evelyn was too preoccupied by a distant distraction to accept. Though the band was faint through the latched door, she could make out the stirring swell of a waltz when she concentrated. She almost recognized it—as if it were something she _should_ be able to remember, something echoing in an elusive corner of her mind—but she couldn't place the tune. And then it struck her: The same song had been playing all those years ago, that fateful night when Evelyn hadn't been brave enough. An unconscious smile broke across her face at the realization. She would not make the same mistake again. The drink could come later.

“Would you care to dance with me, Lady Montilyet?”

Josephine's smile, warm with wonder, was enough to make Evelyn's heart skip a beat. “I was hoping you'd ask, my lady.”

The moment their hands met, Evelyn could feel all the night's weariness slip off her shoulders. This was where she knew she belonged, with their fingers entangled and their bodies pressed together. They had been engaged in this careful courtship for what felt like an eternity, but Evelyn was still half-afraid to touch her sometimes—not quite capable of believing that she could be real, still too smitten and too awed to comprehend any of it. But here she was, real and true, close enough for Evelyn to feel the gentle beating of her heart as the band played on. Her chest ached with adoration.

At first, Evelyn was too caught up in the intricacies of the dance to think—too focused on perfecting every step, every motion, eager and desperate to impress. Dancing had never come easily to her; she had always been too lanky and too awkward, with long legs and a tendency to knock over every last table and vase in a room. (And after years of her mother's haughty, pointed sighs every time Evelyn managed to disappoint her once again, Evelyn had determined that she would never bother learning, so _there_.)

But she wouldn't have lasted long at the Winter Palace if she couldn't manage even a few steps, and so she had spent every spare hour of the last few weeks desperately trying to learn how to at least _seem_ like she knew what she was doing. For the moment, her lessons appeared to have paid off: She still hadn't fallen over, and Josephine kept offering up shy, encouraging smiles that filled Evelyn up from head to toe with soaring delight. At last, she found her rhythm. 

And then she couldn't help herself any longer.

“I've been waiting to dance with you since I was fifteen, you know,” Evelyn murmured.

Josephine missed a step, tripped over her own feet with one sharp intake of breath, and stumbled to a halt. She drew back, her lips parting in a question that she seemed unable to ask. 

It was too late to turn back now. The words tumbled forth, a wild confession; Evelyn stumbled over every syllable, gesturing vaguely and uselessly, her gaze locked on a point just over Josephine's shoulder. “I saw you from across the ballroom—at one of my aunt's summer parties. Two of them, actually. I thought you were the most beautiful woman I'd ever seen. Absolutely fascinating. And then...you smiled at me once. You waved. Sort of. I don't know if it was at me or at someone behind me, but—you waved. And I was so young and so infatuated with you that I panicked and turned away. Maker, it sounds horrible when I put it like that. You don't even remember. It's so stupid. But—”

Josephine interrupted her with a soft, wordless sound, her fingers tangling ever-tighter in the fabric of Evelyn's uniform. She looked utterly lost for words, painfully overwhelmed, but at last she regained her voice. “I...I do not think it sounds stupid.”

Evelyn froze, her silent panic suddenly derailed. “Hold on. You don't?”

“Perhaps...perhaps our paths have always been meant to cross, and I was the foolish one for never noticing you when I should have. Maybe we've been given one more chance. And...well, I do not think it is so impossible for two people to be connected, do you? I want to believe that such a thing could be true, at least.” Josephine's cheeks darkened with a sudden flush of embarrassment and she ducked her head, unable to face Evelyn's searching eyes. “But you must think me dreadfully silly.”

“No, no, of course not,” Evelyn breathed. She tucked one hand under Josephine's chin, gently tilting her head up until their eyes met, and trailed her thumb over the line of her jaw with a reverence that bordered on devout. “Part of me wants to believe the same. And if it's nothing more than chance, then—then I'm the luckiest woman in the world.”

Josephine couldn't help but smile at that; she shifted her hand to cover Evelyn's and gingerly ran one finger over the scar that marred her palm. “You? Lucky?”

Evelyn brushed a windswept curl back behind Josephine's ear and leaned in to press a kiss to her forehead, goosebumps shooting up her spine the moment Josephine's arms settled around her waist. She could barely breathe, could barely focus on anything other than the burn of skin against skin, but she managed to speak. "As long as you're by my side."

When their lips met at last, slow and sweet, everything in the world seemed to fall into place; everything made sense. 

They fit together just right, Evelyn thought. Like this was always meant to be.


End file.
